


Metastasis

by Lxck



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lung Cancer, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24330412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lxck/pseuds/Lxck
Summary: "Refusing chemotherapy, Mr. Tozier, you won't make it to Christmas."This was the part where he quips a joke. Where he looks the painful truth square in the eye and tells it to fuck off with a raunchy your mom joke. But all Richie can do is stare at the papers in front of him. They make no fucking sense; they could be in Italian for all he fucking knew, all he fucking cared. His ears are ringing, heart beating disruptively in his chest like the beat of a bad techno song, and he's so hyper-aware now of every poisoned- pained- breath in. Every dying breath out. Swallowing, he finds his mouth dry, his hands are cold, his eyes burn but not for him.This was going to destroy Eddie...
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 71





	1. Lost on my Own

_It's a virus._

"Mr. Tozier, I'm afraid the test results have come back positive…"

 _A sickness_. 

"The growth rate is astonishingly aggressive. I suggest we begin treatment immediately."

 _Living in us_. 

"Refusing chemotherapy, Mr. Tozier, you won't make it to Christmas."

 _Metastasizing_.

This was the part where he quips a joke. Where he looks the painful truth square in the eye and tells it to fuck off with a raunchy your mom joke. But all Richie can do is stare at the papers in front of him. They make no fucking sense; they could be in Italian for all he fucking knew, all he fucking _cared_ . His ears are ringing, heart beating disruptively in his chest like the beat of a bad techno song, and he's so hyper-aware now of every poisoned- _pained-_ breath in. Every dying breath out. Swallowing, he finds his mouth dry, his hands are cold, his eyes burn but not for him.

Not for him.

God, he had tried taking his own life so many fucking times. That was the point of the fucking cigarettes right? Every time he pussied out of jumping off a bridge or slitting his wrists deep enough, he'd have a smoke. And inhale the toxins to let them slowly eat at him from the inside out. It was a fucking metaphor; Bill would be _so_ proud. But now? Now he didn't have his secret eating away at him. Now he didn't have to live with so much self-loathing he thought about kissing a gun goodnight every other day. Now he wasn't sweetly haunted by the dreams of a boy he didn't remember. He quit smoking, like, two years ago because Eddie asked him to. Because Eddie told him he would be pissed if they survived a psychotic fucking demon only to lose Richie to something so… normal.

His eyes didn't burn for him. He wasn't scared for his own well being. Yeah, sure, c'mon cancer, you wanna kill Richie Trashmouth Tozier, do your worst. This was going to destroy Eddie.

"Mr. Tozier?"

"Yeah? Yeah! Just. Yeah. Uh." Richie pulled in another breath, wincing as his chest burned and he swallowed another coughing fit. Closing his eyes, Richie pushed his glasses up to dig surprisingly steady fingers against his eyelids. A few coughs escaped him as he struggled to find words, and even though he tried to swallow the fit, it happened anyway. Like his body was throwing Richie's bravado back at him. The cancer _is_ doing its worst, fuckhead. That's why you're here. He grabbed a tissue from the box his doctor offered, hacking into it until the pliant folds splattered red. Richie sat back, the unmistakable evidence of his sickness balled tightly in his hand as he sagged against the chair. When he finally spoke again, his voice was raw, strained. "I have to… I have to talk to my husband."

"Mr. Tozier, please, delaying treatment at this point is-"

"Dude, I gave you my answer." Richie grit out, standing and throwing the bloodied rag into a trash bin. He thought about throwing the papers out, too. The last thing he needed was Eddie finding those before Richie could explain the situation to him. "I'll call ya when I'm ready. Or the coroner will, we'll see who's faster."

Before any more pleading and pressing for an immediate chemo appointment could be made, Richie was out the door, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his leather jacket, the other tapping the scientific analysis of his impending death against his thigh. How the fuck was he going to tell Eddie? The man who already worried about the common cold. The man who researched what exact strain of the flu was being passed around every flu season. The man who already lost both of his parents - _good fucking riddance, Sonia, hoped it hurt_ \- to cancer and would now be forced to watch his husband suffer the same fate. Jesus Christ, his life was ironic. All those your mom jokes, likening himself to Eddie's dad and now he was going to go the same way the original Mr. Kaspbrak did, like, fifty years ago. Eddie had been young when his dad died, and not exactly fond of his mother when she died, but the damage of familial loss still sat on the small man's shoulders.

By the time Richie had made it to his car, he had resolutely decided he was _not_ going to tell Eddie.

Which soon begged the question of what the fuck _was_ he going to tell Eddie? He’s coughing up blood, he’s exhausted by midday, he’s barely made it through sets without passing out almost immediately after. His shows had stagnated, he’d been hitting on the same material so Eddie hasn’t attended many of them this year, which was great because some time in mid-July, Richie had a coughing fit so bad, he almost blacked out on stage. By the grace of some higher power, Richie was able to wave his manager off and convince him not to call an ambulance, or worse, his husband. And by the power of his manager, the incident never made the news so Eddie never had to know.

Eddie did know something was up, and by August Richie had gone to the doctor only to be sent home with antibiotics and steroids for a bad case of untreated bronchitis which strengthened into pneumonia. That cover worked for a while. Until Richie woke up hacking so bad one September night, he rolled over and threw up all over their carpet. He didn’t know how he was going to get out of that one, but Eddie asked if Richie had finished his round of antibiotics and Richie took the chance to bury himself in another lie. The whole night was spent with Eddie scrubbing the carpet clean, lecturing a shakingly feverish Richie on the importance of antibiotics, and how bacteria evolve and only get worse if you don't finish your prescribed dose. Now, though, after Eddie had made sure Richie finished his medication, and Richie was lying to Eddie saying he had show dates when he didn’t just so he could go see doctors and have uninterrupted hacking attacks, now Richie had little options.

He had driven without paying much attention and soon found himself parked outside of a dive bar. One that would be mostly empty this time of day save for usuals who would be too drunk and sad to recognize who he was. It only took a glance at the papers in the front seat for him to accept what his subconscious was telling him to do. A drink might help. He was too wound up to think of what his next step was. Besides, it was his lungs that were broken, not his liver. Yet.

Yet, like he was going to make it long enough to actually fuck up his liver, too. If he didn’t start chemotherapy immediately, he wouldn’t make it to Christmas. That gave him… Richie had to brace his hand on the hood of his car, heart beating out of pace again and forcing his already blackened lungs to struggle for quick gasps of air. Fuck, that would only give him two and a half months. Two and a half fucking months. The asshole doc didn’t have to say it, probably a good thing or Richie would have never left the fucking office because he- he-! Richie retched over the front of his car and onto the hot LA pavement, hand curling into a shaking fist. Two fucking months compared to what? A chance? Losing his hair, getting even more sick on chemo, having to tell Eddie and then watch Eddie mentally spiral while Richie physically disintegrated before his eyes?

Eddie couldn’t know. Whether Richie decided to undergo chemo or not, he couldn’t let Eddie know this was happening. After several years of being _happy_ , Eddie was finally starting to get a hold of his medical anxiety. Richie knew exactly what would happen if he even whispered the word cancer in Eddie’s general vicinity. While it physically grew in Richie’s chest, the word would quickly consume Eddie’s every thought; He’d be up late reading about treatments and side effects, he’d spend hours- days- _weeks_ running numbers and analyzing the probability of Richie being able to make it to their tenth anniversary. Sleep would be a thing of the past, sex was already sort of tapering off because Richie just _couldn’t_ keep up, tensions would grow in the house and Riche wouldn’t be able to control the panic attacks Eddie would have. Not that Eddie would even let Richie see them, he’d hide it. He’d wait until he thought Richie was asleep and let himself panic then. Richie could already hear Eddie’s stifled sobs in the shower and Richie couldn’t go to him because he was so fucking weak, he couldn’t even leave the bed.

A shot glass was set down in front of him, light eyes widening as Richie was knocked clear out of his daze. When the fuck did he get inside? He looked around at an almost empty bar, brows falling in his confusion. Several seats down was an equally sad fucker with his head on the counter and his fist closed around the sweating remnants of a beer. A group played pool as cigarette smoke greyed the table in a toxic fog. Richie didn’t know why he was repulsed by it now, too little too late and all of that. Sighing, Richie took the shot and swallowed it in one go, gesturing for another the moment he set his glass down. It was hard to distinguish what exactly caused the burn in his chest, but at least when he drank he could pass it off as just that. For a few seconds, Richie could pretend his world wasn’t caving in.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and Richie didn’t need to check it to know who was texting him. He had time before he had to get home, Eddie believed Richie was at a meeting with his manager to go over tour dates or what the fuck ever. Tonguing the inside of his cheek, Richie downed the second shot and then asked for a glass of bourbon. Contacting his manager wouldn’t be a bad idea, and usually as long as part of his lie had truth it was easier to sell to Eddie. Not that Richie had made a habit of lying to his husband, but Richie had made a habit of lying about life for almost forty fucking years, lying about death would be a neat way to bookend his pitiful existence.

 _Could_ he do shows anymore? Ever since his incident, his shows had been few and far between, and even those occasional sets were difficult to get through. Freddie Mercury performed a whole fucking concert while dying, Richie could say a few jokes, sit on a stool, and drink water. He finished his bourbon, lips pulled back over his teeth in a grimace as the burn spread from his chest to his throat. Although that might just be him finally feeling the effects of emptying his stomach in the parking lot like…

Jesus _fuck,_ an hour ago? He’d been here an hour? Fuck! He wasn’t on medication and already he had chemo brain. Cursing under his breath, Richie finally looked at his phone, realizing the text was nearly a half-hour old. God, he couldn’t face Eddie yet, even if it was just his words. Richie unlocked the phone and cleared the notification before opening his messages to type one out to his manager. It wasn’t until he tried to press fingers to the keyboard that he noticed just how drunk he might be. But he still couldn’t focus, so he ordered another drink.

[Text: A.J] Cant do shows nomore. GOT cancer lol

Halfway through his task, his phone buzzed again and he had a flash of Eddie’s name and the emoji’s attached to it at the top of his screen. He cursed again, moving to quickly swipe it away but fumbled it and now he was switched to Eddie’s chat and _fuck_ now Eddie knows he saw the texts. Why were his fingers so big? Why couldn’t he just close the convo- he didn’t want to read these texts yet. _Shit_. 

**3:48**

_Richie, I just saw the cutest fucking dog. Like holy shit, it’s so fucking cute_.

**4:23**

_Home Early. Making Dinner. I’ll do veggies the way you like. Love you_.

Fuck him. Richie dropped his phone to the counter with a clatter, shoving his glasses up into his hair and digging his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. Eddie was so fucking sweet, so fucking _happy_ and his world was turning and he smiled all the fucking time and Richie knew, _he knew,_ that would all disappear the moment he found out Richie wasn’t going to make it to their tenth anniversary, let alone the _next_ one. A drink was placed in front of him as he fought back tears, the bartender telling him it was on the house in a soft tone before she moved down to the next patron. People were starting to filter in now. Someone might recognize him. He didn’t fucking care. He was going to ruin Eddie’s life.

He couldn’t do that. After everything, after watching his parents both die of cancer, Richie couldn’t let Eddie watch him waste away to fucking nothing. He couldn’t put the stress and anxiety on him, he wouldn’t. So he sat at the bar, going round and round on the lies he could spin and the things he could do to cover the fucking truth, but at the end of the day it came down to him either admitting he was in chemo when his hair inevitably fell out or… Or he didn’t go through with the treatment and face the clock as it slowly ticked closer and closer to his inevitable end.

Man, fuck Bev. Did she see _this_ shit in her little nightmares? Was this how he was always supposed to go or was this just some cruel fucking joke the universe decided to play? Was this Pennywise’s last laugh?

This had been the longest silence Richie had experienced in his life, and he sat at the bar well into the night, his phone buzzing intermittently beside him. He knew what it would say. He knew Eddie was starting to get worried but he was trying to be brave and not let his anxiety get the best of him anymore and he was going to let Richie alone after an attempted phone call and one more ‘I love you’ text. That was when he finally had a plan. Finishing his drink- Richie had no idea how many he had, but it was enough he didn’t think twice about what he was going to do now. He did need his phone, though, and he mumbled to himself as he fixed his glasses and fumbled with the contacts until he found Mike’s number. Eddie needed somewhere to go; Bill and Mike’s house would be perfect. Hopefully they didn’t have plans. It doesn’t matter, Richie had fucking cancer, he won.

He hoped the texts were legible enough for Mike to get at least a partial idea of what Richie wanted. Either way, he knew Eddie well enough to know how he would respond, at least he hoped so. Fuck, what time was it? It didn’t matter, he was done.

Paying his tab, Richie pocketed his phone without looking at the texts Eddie sent. He couldn’t break this character he wanted- no, not wanted but _needed_ \- to play. His walls were up, he knew his lines, now he just had to deliver it well enough to be believable. The comedian marked for death stumbled to the side as he finally stood after drinking however much he drank, his foot slamming down on the wooden floors in a resounding thud as he tried to steady himself. He felt it rock through his body, echoing in his head before he righted himself in what felt like slow motion. Someone asked if he was alright, and Richie just waved him off as he made it through the door and to his car.

Somewhere in his head, he heard the rational part of his voice- _Eddie’s voice_ \- tell him to call an uber or a lyft or something. But the only part capable of thinking right now decided his car was the best idea. Maybe he could luck out and crash his car before he got home, spare everyone the pity and guilt and let his own stupid choices take him out quickly. A quick death would be better than slow, which, ironically, was also a result of Richie’s own stupid choice. He got in his car, dropping the keys twice in his lap before he finally managed to slide the key where it belonged and jump-start the fire-colored beast to life. 

The world swirled together in a way that used to make him sick to his stomach; Street lights and stop lights, street signs and stop signs. They were a blur of colors as he drove home, his mind focused on the line he was going to give Eddie when he walked through the door. It was his only choice, this was the only way. He couldn't let Eddie watch him die. It was selfish. It was cowardly. He didn't want to die knowing Eddie would miss hin. Richie didn't want Eddie mourning him, he didn't want him living with the same agony Richie had when he watched- A broken sob quickly swallowed deep in his chest and his composure fixed- when he watched Eddie die.

His doorknob was suddenly in his hand, the cold metal shocking his system hard enough to bring him back where he needed to be. Eddie was going to be right there on the other side, Richie knew that. He took one final breath to steady himself and then opened the door.

"What the _fuck_ , asshole! You couldn't be bothered to read my fucking texts? I thought you fucking _died,_ Rich! I was about to call the fucking police!" Eddie was there, as expected, talking a mile a minute and honest to God, Richie only kept up with half of it. He had his line, it didn't really need a cue from anyone else. But he needed to make sure Eddie heard him the first time. "Like seriously, dude, you could have just--"

"Shut the fuck up, Eddie," Richie said flatly, rolling his head before he looked at his spouse. Eddie was already dressed in his nightclothes, showered and ready for bed but he couldn't sleep without Richie at least saying goodnight… That was something Eddie would have to get over quick.

Eddie wasn't phased by being told to shut up, and he kept going like Richie had only sneezed, granting him a brief pause for politeness before continuing. "You didn't want chicken? Fine! You didn't have to fucking eat it, but at least text me that so I'm not here--"

"No, like, dude, I _hate_ the sound of your voice, do you have any fucking clue how _annoying_ you are?" Richie looked at Eddie, jaw tight.

The smaller man took a longer pause like the words had stung a little deeper this time. Still, he gathered himself to bite back. "Fuck you, Richie. I was just worried abou--"

"You wanna know where I was, Edward? I was at a fucking bar, getting shit faced. You wanna know _why_ , Eds?"

Now Eddie was catching on to the situation. Richie wasn't just being Richie, he was being serious. Part of Richie lamented how Eddie's trust in them had come undone so easily, the other part was grateful he didn't have to draw out this fight. Eddie's hands clenched at his sides, then nervously unclenched as Eddie looked up at Richie. "Wh-why? Why were you at a bar?"

"Because I'm sick of you. I want you to move out." Richie started, and unfortunately that was only part of the line he had to deliver. It was the first hit of the nail that dug it into the wall, but the next strike would knock it home. "Because _I don't love you anymore_."


	2. In Search of Something Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie deals with the emotional fallout of his husband forcing him out.

_ I don’t love you anymore. _

Eddie flinched, somehow sinking further in his seat on the front porch swing as his fingers curled around the mug of tea that had long gone cold since Bill first handed it to him. A blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, eyes staring unseeingly across the mist blanketed pasture that surrounded the Hanlon-Denbrough ranch in upstate California. The sky was starting to lighten as sunrise threatened to spill across the front yard, and Eddie hadn’t slept a fucking wink all night. He spent an hour and a half on a plane in the middle of the night, landed and was almost immediately enveloped by Mike and Bill. Eddie wished he could have said he didn’t cry until that moment, but he had spent the whole damn flight angrily wiping tears from his eyes and shouting at the flight attendant who kept asking him if he was okay.

_ My husband just kicked me out,  _ _ of course I’m not fucking okay! _

Even now, nearly four hours later, Eddie closed his eyes and felt hot tears roll down salt tracked cheeks. He had taken at least 1600 MG of ibuprofen in the last eight hours, so at least his head didn’t hurt so much from all the crying. Now if only there was something he could take to alleviate the icepick in his chest. Another shuddered breath in, his heart pounding painfully in his ears until it became a dull rumble. When he opened his eyes, he was back home- not home anymore- staring at Richie’s dead expression as he told him he didn’t love him anymore. No anger, no  _ pain _ , just cold, unyielding indifference.

_ What… what the fuck do you mean you _ don’t  _ love me anymore? You said you  _ _ loved me this morning, what the fuck happened in- _

_ I was _ lying _ , dude. Been lyin’ for a _ _ while and I’m just fuckin’ sick of it.  _ _ Can’t take it anymore,  _ _ can’t take  _ you _ anymore. _

_ Rich… Rich, c'mon, man,  _ _ what the fuck's going on?  _ _ This- this isn't- this isn't you. _

It hurt to breathe. Each breath raw and forced as Eddie inhaled and rubbed his eyes to try and get the image of Richie looking absolutely bored of him out of his head. He would need something a lot stronger than tea to do so, but Bill had refused, always the big brother, always watching over them. Over him. Eddie knew he was inside texting and calling Richie, trying to understand where all of this shit suddenly came from. If he was being honest with himself, Eddie was, too. This all felt  _ wrong;  _ being at Mike and Bill's house without Richie, to be separated for a reason beyond work. They were fucking married, Richie couldn't just decide he was done. Eddie shouldn’t have left. He should have stayed.

But he was scared. After everything, after facing an evil fucking clown twice and barely escaping with his life the second time, he was  _ scared _ to stay in the same house as Richard. Not for fear of Richie doing anything to him, but Eddie couldn’t handle seeing the disinterest behind the glasses anymore. He couldn’t handle looking up at Richie with tears in his own eyes as his world fell apart to see someone who simply  _ didn’t _ care. Eddie wished he had gotten mad. He should have been pissed, how dare this  _ asshole _ kick him out of his own fucking house. Instead, Eddie was hollow. It would be easier to be numb, but he felt way too much to be that. Maybe empty, but that didn’t entirely work either; you can fill something that’s empty, but Eddie had everything ripped out of him when Richie said he was done with him.

_ You don’t know who the fuck I am, Kaspbrak. _ _ Yeah, I want my fucking name back, too.  _ _ Did you even ask to take it? _

_ You said you liked it… _

_ Yeah because it was easier than arguing with you.  _ _ Every fucking time it’s just easier to let you _ _ do whatever the fuck you want than argue.  _ _ Like, Jesus, did your mother possess you when  _ _ she finally kicked the fucking bucket?  _ _ You were never this  _ controlling _ when we were kids. _

“Eddie, you need to sleep.” Mike’s voice shot through the vivid memory and Eddie jumped enough to spill the tea all over the blanket he was enveloped in. The blanket that made him feel like he was the victim of a horrific crime, and maybe someone would deem having the love of your life tell you they fell out of love with you could constitute the use of a shock blanket. They saved the world from a demonic space invader, they were all entitled to a goddamn shock blanket for whatever situation they deemed necessary.

Cursing in a croaked voice, Eddie stood up on stiff legs to set the remnants of tea on the porch bannister while he tried to shake the liquid from the blanket before it set. “Sorry, Mike. Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t, I’m-”

"Eddie," Mike said, reaching out to gently hold Eddie's shoulders. Whenever Mike spoke, his voice was so kind and gentle and Eddie should be grateful, but all it did was remind him of the way Richie used to talk to him. Reminded him that it  _ had  _ been a long time since Richie used such a soft tone with him.

Fuck, how stupid had he been? How long was Richie simply putting up with him? What did he do that annoyed Richie so goddamn much that the past few years of vacations, and laughing, and  _ incredible _ sex was worth throwing away? Was Eddie just…  _ always _ that bad? Lost in his own self deprecation, Eddie didn't remember Mike was there until he gave him a soft shake.

Refocusing, Eddie held Mike's eyes, and slowly he lowered his hands until the blanket was dragging against the wooden porch. Opening his mouth to mumble a sad 'Sorry', Eddie was cut off by Mike pulling him in for the hundredth hug that night. And Mike was warm, and solid, and he smelled like a dusty old book shop but without the allergies.

But it wasn't Richie.

Eddie felt his throat close again, his head throbbing dully because he had no more tears to shed. So he dryly sobbed into Mike's chest, dropping the blanket to wrap his arms around his friend. It was foolish to say, wildly vulnerable and pathetically hopeful, but Eddie said it. "I miss him. I just want him back, Mike."

The only response Mike gave was a long sigh, rubbing soothing circles up and down Eddie's back to try and calm him. It would be a long process, and Eddie was lamenting every second that ticked by without Richie. He was exhausted, but how could he sleep without Richie right next to him? It wasn't like he was just on tour, because even then Richie would call him. Would talk about the stupidest shit until Eddie fell asleep to the low rumble of his voice. Now, all that waited for Eddie in a lonely bed was the sound of his own unending thoughts.

"Can I," Eddie started, swallowing thickly as he pulled away. "Can I have my phone? I'll go to bed. But let me just, I don't know, put on some fucking ocean sounds or something."

For a measure, Eddie thought Mike might say no. That Eddie needed to go to bed and take the time to decompress. To disconnect and let himself think. Process. Fuck that, Eddie didn't want to process. Keeping the phone would have been for the best because the moment Eddie was curled up in the guest bed, door locked, Eddie was texting Richie.

[2:57]

**I'm sorry, Richie. Whatever I did, I'm sorry. Tell me what I did** _. _

The moment he sent the text, Eddie saw the immediate read receipt by his text bubble, his heart hammering in his chest as he curled around the phone. Around the realization that Richie must have their chat open, must be prepared to say something-  _ anything _ . But nothing came. Eddie stared at the screen for a minute. For two. Nothing. Not even the three bubbles that signified a response was being written.

Nothing.

Through tearful eyes, Eddie attempts another text, stifling the pathetic whimper that rose in his throat.

[3:00]

**Rich. Please. Talk to me. I love you. I love you. I don't want you to leave me, I'll do anything. Please.**

**I mean, how fucking pathetic is it to be divorced twice?**

**Like I fucking failed being straight, now I'm going to fail being gay, too?**

**Richie. I love you. I want to come home.**

After every message, Eddie could see the immediate read response. Yet Richie only provided radio silence. A silence that existed in Eddie's head that was heavier than the quiet of a funeral. Richie was blatantly ignoring him now. Purposely. Why the fuck did he even have the chat open? Was he waiting for Eddie to say the right words? What were the right words? What would be the magic fucking words that brough his husband's love and affection back? Eddie would give fucking anything to know the right words. Anything to see Richie right now, to read his mind for half a fucking second just so Eddie could understand where all of this came from.

Fed up with Richie's deliberate ignorance, Eddie called him. It barely made it through the first fucking ring before the call was sent straight to voicemail. Eddie tried twice more, each time getting sent to voicemail almost instantly.

That proved Richie was actively staring at his phone. That it was in his hands, purposely ignoring Eddie's calls and texts. Some of Eddie's anger returned now. How fucking  _ dare _ Richie ignore him? After everything. After nearly dying together  _ twice _ , Richie can't even be bothered to give him a proper explanation?

[3:07]

**I can see your fucking Read Receipts, asshole. Fucking answer me!**

Another quick indication that Richie had read the text. Eddie was now sitting up in the bed, the phone in his lap as his head hung in near defeat. How much begging would it take? Could Eddie repair whatever damage he did? Was it something he did or was it really just how he was? Maybe Richie had dreamed up this perfect Eddie before they were even together. An Eddie who wasn't scared of sex. Who wasn't scared of a sneeze or a cough. Maybe this other Eddie didn't have anxiety, maybe he was good at communicating and maybe he was good at handling the house work on his own.

Maybe this perfect Eddie didn't have a scar. Maybe this perfect Eddie looked like Ben or something. Someone Richie actually wanted.

[3:15]

**Do you want me anymore** ?

The words were typed out and sent before Eddie could excruciate over them. And it was this time Eddie noticed there was no read receipt attached to his words. That meant Richie turned them off or… Had stopped staring at his phone. Maybe Richie really was done. And Eddie had failed not one but two marriages. He wasn't sure exactly what he did but he was sure it was  _ his _ fault.

Dropping the phone to the bed, Eddie hung his head in his hands. A broken sob as he fell back into the bed, head throbbing fully now even though he still had an hour until he could safely dose again. Did that fucking matter? What was he going to do on his own? Go back to New York. Transfer branches again. But this time it would just be him in a sad, quiet apartment. Who would stop him then from ODing on anything he wanted. Would anyone ever find his body? Would anyone tell the losers? Would they notice? Or would they go on as if nothing was different? No need for little Eds. Weak, and delicate, and annoying Eds.

He fell back against the pillow, rolling to his side to curl in on himself. He lay there, staring at the door, tears nothing but salted track marks on his face. This was the numb feeling. He had only felt it when his mother died. Like the tragedy that surrounded him was too much, so his body blocked it. Delicate Ed's couldn't handle being sad.

Sleep didn't come easy, if at all. Maybe Eddie slept in fits, maybe he didn't even close his eyes and the hours just bled together until he blinked and daylight started to filter through the curtains. After the second hour, he stopped checking his phone and lost track of time entirely until the sunlight filled the room. It was insulting, how anything so bright could exist when Eddie felt like his chest had been clawed open and left to bleed. His world had ended, how could the sun still rise?

Despite the weight of his limbs and the ache in his chest, Eddie forced himself to stand, phone abandoned in the folds of the blankets. Richie wasn't speaking to him, what did he fucking care? Who else was there to talk to? No one he wanted to talk to. What was Stan going to say? Don't take a bath. Real fucking helpful. What could Bev or Ben offer in all this? Nothing, they're probably trying to contact Richie as much as Bill was with no luck. It didn't matter. Nothing fucking mattered.

Eddie stood in the hallway for a long while, hand touching the wall as if it was the only thing keeping his feet under him. He could hear Bill and Mike in the dining room talking quietly, only able to catch a few words but it was obvious they were discussing him and Richie. What else was there to talk about? Their lives were probably perfect, Mike probably loved Bill and vice versa, they couldn't possibly ever have to deal with the absolute heartache that Eddie had to endure. Taking deep breaths, it felt like Eddie was gasping for air, for anything to steady him but there was nothing. Richie had been his rock, the one thing that could always,  _ always _ , calm him and now he was without it. Without the one thing that made him truly happy, what was he going to do?

It was so pathetic. Eddie knew that. Eddie knew that clinging to anyone was just a means of getting hurt. He knew when he first married Richie that this could end in disaster but Eddie was stupid. He let his guard down, he trusted Richie and now here he was. Fighting for breath in a quiet hallway, listening to the hushed tones of childhood friends who were probably wondering how soon they could be rid of him.

Where could he go? Back to New York? It wasn't like he didn't have money, he could find a little one bedroom apartment, live alone. Die alone. What did it matter? Nothing good lasted, wasn't that the point of life? To suffer indefinitely and then die.

Before Eddie could catch his breath, he heard footsteps climbing the stairs two at a time. He hated,  _ hated _ , how heavy they sounded and how for a split second his mind thought it might be Richie coming to save him but instead Mike appeared, gathering Eddie up and into his arms. "Match my breathing, Eddie."

The order left no room for questioning, and as Mike breathed in deep and even, Eddie followed. Shakily, but Eddie still tried. Then Mike released and Eddie mirrored him. They kept this up for a few minutes, Bill slowly coming up the stairs to watch while Mike brought Eddie out of an anxiety induced asthmatic attack. Not that Eddie even had asthma, but with everything going on, he was tempted to refill a prescription he hadn't filled since Derry. When Eddie could breathe on his own again, Bill came closer, hand gentle on his back as he rubbed small circles along his spine. "Come eat some breakfast."

If he had the wherewithal to argue, Eddie would, but he could only muster a slow nod and weakly hold Bill's hand as he followed him downstairs. There was awkward silence, heavy on an already weighted chest but Eddie had no idea how to break it. He didn't want to, what did he have to say? He missed Richie… He wanted Richie back. He wanted Richie to want him back or to love him again or to at least talk to him so he could understand  _ why _ . Bill squeezed Eddie's hand. Hard. Recentering Eddie like he could read his mind and see him circling the same drain he had for the last twelve hours.

Once downstairs situated at the table, Bill never let go of Eddie's hand, tired eyes never looking away. Mike was in the kitchen getting a minor breakfast together. Simple toast. Anything that would be easy for Eddie to get down when he probably wasn't hungry. The silence remained, no one knowing what to say because the situation was so… strange. Richie and Eddie shared the same exact friend group, so how could Bill and Mike take a side? They weren't taking a side, really, just caring for Eddie the best they could and trying to get through to Richie to talk some sense into the absolute idiot.

"I didn't do anything." Eddie finally said, voice still raw from crying and now exhaustion.

Mike set a plate down while Bill rubbed his thumb against Eddie's fist. It was Bill who spoke next. "No one thinks you did, E-"

"No, don't give me that shit. You've been trying to figure out what  _ I _ did to piss Richie off this bad all night. And I have, too, but I didn't fucking  _ do _ anything! I didn't cheat, I didn't start an argument, I didn't  _ do anything _ ! So what the fuck-  _ what the fuck _ gives him the right to do this to me! To fucking ghost his own  _ fucking _ husband like he's twelve or some shit! We're forty-fucking-five! What the fuck!"

Eddie slammed his hand down on the table, standing so fast the chair clattered backward. Anger felt better, with anger he felt like he could  _ do _ something. Like he had options here. When neither Bill nor Mike moved to calm him down, Eddie continued.

"Seriously  _ fuck _ him. I loved him, I gave him  _ fucking everything _ . I moved to an entirely new city, started an entirely new life, I!" Eddie's sentences were punctuated with manic laughter. "I admitted I was gay! A secret I was prepared to die with because my old life was fucking comfortable and, like,  _ normal _ all things considered. Fucking normal compared to  _ Richie _ . Gave up a nice house with nice friends for...? What? For a washed up  _ fucking _ comedian who can't even  _ tell _ me why he doesn't love me anymore! Fuck him…"

Just as quick as anger appeared, it was gone and Eddie's voice was small again, a fresh round of tears he didn't even know he had stinging his eyes. He looked at Bill, feeling as helpless as the day they first met and so, so  _ sad.  _ Before Eddie could collapse under the weight of his grief, Mike and Bill were there to catch him, holding him tightly between them. Refusing to let him fall.

"Fuck him. I still love him. I love him so much, Bill, I don't know what to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed it, come talk to me at ull-float-too.tumblr.com ♡


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